When your ass numbs out and you're stuck squirming around in manner that gives the impression that you've got a mad wedgie or are doing the sitting equation of the potty dance, that's when you know that you've been sitting for too long. Lucky for me, we've arrived already. Now it's all about timing and deciding whether to jack some fool's parking space. Chicago's notorious for its' shit parking and shitty parking system.
While my chauffer for the night parks, I stare out the window at the flashing lights that the theatre has on. How my pseudo uncle ever believed his business was low key beats me, "Yo, let's get a move on. We've got a walk ahead of us and there's slush all over the place."
Crinkling my eyebrows, "By 'we' you mean, me, right?"
"By 'we' I mean, you and I have a walk ahead of us," he responds sliding out the door and making his way over to open mine, "Watch your step," he cautions.
Adamantly refusing, I keep my seat belt on and cross my arms, "You aren't babysitting me, nope."
Irritation mixed with other unpleasant feelings swirl around my best friend's almond shaped eyes, "I can see that you're unhappy about that but guess what, I don't give a shit. I'm gonna stand here 'till you decide to get out or go home," he states with determination.
"Whatever suits you," I reply, he's going to crack sooner than later. Patience isn't one of his most redeemable qualities.
"Can you make it snappy," he blurts, "I'm not diggin' the extra male attention you're chalking up."
Following his intent mean mug, I find the guys he's talking about. They come off as random schmucks: the kind that let their eyes linger on sixteen year olds – harmless creepers. Then again, these were the type of men that solicited my services, one way or the other. After they'd use me, they'd throw bills and coins and leave me there. The thought makes me shiver, "I hate you," I mumble. The comment goes through one ear and comes out the other. Wesley knows me all too well. He extends his hand so I'll be able to skip over the heap of muddy snow. It was a bad night for ballet flats, "Luz is going to lynch me one of these days if you keep this up…" the man replies with a breathy laugh like he's been humored.
Crossing the street, we assimilate with the rest of the midnight owls. Who would be out this late on Thursday? Apparently couples who seek a late night dinner, singles seeking a drink, rebellious teens who pour out of the theater, and drunks who slum around the street without a care in the world.
Flyers scale Las Palmas's obscured windows announcing special appearances and specials. My eyebrows quirk so far up, I think they might not be attached to my face anymore. I can't wrap my brain around tonight's special guests. I always liked to believe that my uncle was nothing more but an owner of a shoddy bar or sleazy strip club or even a generic taco place. I was wrong seeing the kind of guests he's hosting and the line that floods the outside of his establishment.
"You really don't have to stick around, Wes. Tomorrow, correct me if I'm wrong, you have some serious ink. It's the first one you've done in a while so…you can go and get some shuteye," I ramble, getting into line.
Amused, the kid laughs and pats my shoulder, "Nice try. It is offending but nice try. You ain't shaking me off, not by a long shot. Besides, you need a hook up if you wanna see a tip before dawn. Come on," he wraps an arm around my waist and walks me up to the burly security guard. Scornful eyes follow us, "Bo, my man, you got me or what?"
It's a small world or Wes is trying too hard. Either way the guard responds, "If you got IDs and she's single, yeah," I don't know if he's joking but I can already picture a rather uncomfortable scenario where I'm crushed under his weight.
Wes rolls his eyes and flips him the bird before digging into his pocket, "She's my baby sister, watch it," he say playfully, "Where's Lars? Has Mr. Rock Star come back from the west coast yet?"
This Bo figure eyeballs the plastic and lifts the guard rail, "I guess it's daughter like mother," he chortles and Wes groans, "but nah, Lars Mars is still on tour. Now, let me do my job."
Another guard ushers us in and opens another set of doors to reveal the cabaret itself. I underestimated the uncle big time. Forget a tasteless taco shack or undulating women sliding on poles, this cabaret embodies all that is class. I'm talking about a full bar with mirror walls, orderly arranged bottles and glassware, and marble top counters. I'm talking about booths with leather cushions that encase the dining floor with mahogany tables in the center. I'm talking about dim, centerpiece chandeliers that set up a laid back mood. I'm talking about patrons with no distinction other than business casual – none of that club shit.
"Wow," I mumble in awe.
"Yeah, yeah that'll wear off soon enough," Wesley drags me over to the bar but I'm still busy taking in the atmosphere and the God given vocalizations of Chicago's very own, Jennifer Hudson – last year's American Idol winner, "Marleene,.."
"Yeah…?"
"Close ya' damn mouth and say 'hi' to my friend Danny."
To do so proves difficult but not impossible. I turn on my heel and lean against the countertop and look into the eyes of a redheaded bartender, "Oh, hello," I smile gently at the woman.
Danny nods and returns my smile, "Can I get you guys anything?" she asks readily setting up glasses.
"I'll have whatever's cheap here," responds my friend.
The bartender looks at me with question, "I'd just like to know where the dressing room is," I answer. I've kind of seen the waitresses that consist of beauties dressed in mock pin-up wear: standard black dresses, cat eyes, and oxblood lipstick.
"Oh, you're covering for Belen…" I nod, uncle never mentioned who I'm taking over for so…whatever it could be a tranny for all I care, "I'll show you the way," she discards the dishrag that rests on her shoulder, lifts the marble top, and tells Wes to chill for a minute, and she stalks off. Maybe a second too late I realize that I am to follow her. Yeah, that's hell. Catching up to her means that I have to slide, squeeze, and sift through a sea of socializing people. The short stuff halts and waits on me, "I'm sorry," I try to make out anything coherent but just wheeze on, "I'm sorry," she giggles, "but I'm letting you in now, you're going to be the center of the bitches's toilet talk. It sucks but one more honey is one less tip for them," figures…, "Also, you're going to have to be susceptible to some of these bastards' overfriendliness."
"I've gotta get this cash, so I'm sellin' this ass."
The girl nods, "On that note, if you're going to buss it, please do so discreetly," she taps his chin as if she's thinking of anything else, "It's black dress, red lipstick, and heel attire," her eyes roams the length of me, "Yeah, let's get you into something quick. Three to seven is like an express lane for tips."
Then it's off to the races, again. We end up inside a locker room similar to that of play theatres and that whole mess. Danny strides in like nothing but I linger apprehensively. The smoldering glances are enough to incinerate a girl but I'm not here to make friends and talk Cosmo so I follow Danny.
"You weren't kidding about toilet talk."
She nods apologetically and opens up a closet to Wonderland. These motherfuckers are serious about their black and red getups. Rows of black fabric and patented leather line the racks, "Choose with freedom."
Louboutin, Kors, Valentino, Choo, de la Renta, BCBG, Wang, Melani, Taylor, Jacobs, Johnson, and I'm suppose to choose? That a joke? I could steal three pieces and pawn them off for more than I've made in the last year. I'll be damned if I leave here without anything. Uncle's abundant clothing and money is my abundant clothing and money.
"So, where is the changing station of whatever?" I inquire with a simple fitted halter dress and red heels in hand. It's a goddamn good thing I have the pantyhose. Always gotta be prepared.
"Here."
"What?" My face falls, "Are you playing with me?"
She shrugs, "Wish I was."
I look around at the women still present in the room, all their little over coated, raccoon, beady eyes glimmer with amusement and anticipation. Hell no! Fuck this. Bad enough I have to stoop to this shit, I'm going out with dignity. With that, I shuffle back into the closet, all in the name of self preservation.
ΔΔΔΔ
"…add a pinch of dirty, sprinkle in some charm, mix in pointless chatter, and serve those drinks. Nothing to it, really. You already own the sexy so it'll be easy peasy lemon squeezy," reassures this one chick, Barbs, who's in charge of the resident lovelies.
"That all?" please let it be!
Grimacing, "Eh, not quite. Th-"
I frown, holding in my groan, "This is torturous. All I'm really here for is the cash."
"I understand but there's a catch," catches aren't ever good, "After Jennifer closes for a break, Belen usually is the break act. Since Belen isn't here, you're the break act," the charge grins toothily.
Torturous steps up to tortuously grueling. It's suddenly too stuffy, sauna stuffy. I can't even gulp; my saliva is like dried glue. Why didn't I ask for specifics on this job? I would scrape toilets at McDonald's in exchange for not making an ass out of myself in front of a full house. There's a reason why I never quite fit in with the frill wearing girls that go invited to every basement party in high school, I don't thrive on attention, "What?"
She rubs her arm, "Yeah, um, you're to entertain our lovely paying audience."
If you shake a bunny and it gets overworked or overexcited, it's heart stops long enough for it to calm down, I don't think it's the same for humans but I'm already on my way to finding out. I am frantic, "Dude, I am stage…I have stage fright like fright of the stage! Like, I could barely make it through speech week in high school!"
However nice the intention was, Barb tried to soothe me with the news that I am in charge for tonight's VIPs which, in any other given situation, would've been a godsend, only added to my nervous breakdown. Trust me, I'd thrown off my panties and gotten myself a heatstroke over these beings. People aren't even off beat about them which comes to show how used to the famous crowd they are.
"When…when am I getting paid?" I ask. For all my troubles, I won't even earn a third for them.
"Usually around eight but it all depends. Don't worry, look on the bright side of this, you might be going home as arm candy for one of those two sexy sons of bitches," she lets out an airy schoolgirl giggle
I grimace as though going home with any one of them would be horrific, "This is going to be one long, long night…" a server balancing a tray full of drinks saunters by and I take the second's opportunity to steal one and chug it down, "That's definitely not going to cut it."
A skeletal hand pats my shoulder, "That's how all of us feel, pumpkin. You gotta do what you gotta do," Barbs looks off into the distance, the VIP table, "Start them off with a Four Horsemen," she turns to me and nods before strutting off into a mix of bodies.
For minutes, I just stand mentally preparing dialogue since I don't want to come off as just another fangirl, those are a dime in a dozen. It ends off with me pushing past patrons just trying to get to the bar where I spot Wes and Danielle having a laugh between her serving and him drinking. This could end off well; Wes might leave Luz, finally.
Knocking on the bar, "Slide two Four Horsemen my way, please," I ask Danielle and she readily complies. I rotate to Wes, "You'll never guess who I have the pleasure of keeping company!"
"Who?" he asks warily. I point out the table and his drink nearly slips, "You better walk out of here with half a stack of merch and autographs!"
"Drinks up, girl," taps Danielle, "Be careful, unless you have experience or really awesome balance."
I take her words into consideration and start my way toward the waiting guests. Weaving through these tables has me feeling like road kill, these eyes follow me like vultures. I guess if they're regulars they can tell I'm a newbie and are waiting for me to face plant or maybe it's the fact that every step taken, a centimeter of my dress hikes up.
Time to pull it down, Marleene. Pull it down, now. Your panties are a step away from greeting the world! Figuring that preserving my decency is a must, I balance the tray with one, keep traveling, and pull down my dress with the free hand. In countless movies and shoes, people make it out to be pretty easy.
Apparently, I should stop following those examples. I've just victimized a poor soul in a head on collision. One moment I'm fine, the next I hit a brick like body and send both of us toppling to the floor, creating a symphony of groans and breaking glass, as well as 'oohs' and 'ahs'.
"I am so very, very, frea- super sorry!" I stutter. I don't know what's more embarrassing, the fact that I'm head over heels trying to apologize to a patron who's formal wear has been soiled with liquor or the fact that I'm gathering shards of glass, indecently exposed, with said patron helping my cause. I think the latter.
A calloused, tattooed hand reaches out to me. My eyes widen, deciphering the writing on the flesh 'DRUG' and I'll be damned if the other set isn't 'FREE'. Of all the places in this limitless city…, "It's alright. It's okay. Get up befo- Marleene?" the previously nameless patron's eyes bore into mine as my own snap shut. Of course it had to be the ever witty, charming, CM Punk.
ΔΔΔΔ
Maybe I was gullible enough to believe if I walked fast enough I could lose him because he's been skirting my tail without signs of stopping. Not only are guests eyeing us but the kid's raucously asking for a reason as to why I'm here and it's successfully making me look like an ex girlfriend set on stalking the whereabouts of her lost lover.
"I'd really appreciate it if you'd just tone your shit down a dial and rotated on back to your seat and left me be," I tell him keeping a smile on to save face but what I've said came out too brusque to mask anything.
"And I don't fucking care what you'd appreciate!" he snaps and the section around us hushes up, "Just tell me what you're doing here, of all places?" he gruffly mutters.
Swinging around to face him, "Keep your damn voice down; this isn't the wild where whoever's shout is the alpha! As for why I'm here, why the hell do you care?" quieting down, "I won't be anything but moving matter in your world long as you stay out of my way. Now, please for the sake of civility, go back and sit your ass down," with that, I turn and make a hasty escape but his paw latches onto my arm and twirls me around, "Don't. Touch. Me." I snarl and shove him back.
Abiding by my feral request, he steps back with his hands raised to eye level as though to show he isn't going to provoke me. If I weren't as unhinged as I am, I'd be surprised by the fact that his ever present smirk isn't present. In it's presence is a grimace and a whole lot of anger lines. He's seriously bothered by me, "I'll leave you alone once you tell me why you're here and not back at Mackenzie's."
Crossing my arms defiantly, I glare flaming darts into the muddy olive irises of his, "The FBI sent me undercover tonight. They deemed my 'insanity' a worthy trait and so I'm here…" he doesn't seem amused so I roll my eyes, "Isn't it obvious enough, I'm working graveyard for extra singles for some presents and my personal benefit. See, nothing important for you to know. So, excuse me but I got David Bautista and Randy Orton waiting on me and their drinks," I hustle off or at least attempt to.
I'm unceremoniously spun back into his taut, silver dress shirt clad body. Other days, I'd be foaming at the mouth at such intimate contact – not today. Previously bothered eyes are not physically impossible to glare at due to the intensity that's enough to simmer eyes dry. The man blatantly asks me if the only reason I'm there is to roll in the hay with tonight's VIPs. The nerve of him.
When I refuse to respond to his insensitive query, he impetuously chains down my wrists with all he's got. The pain is enough to bruise, "Phil…Phil! You're hurting me!" even with that, he doesn't budge.
"You're un-fucking-believable. Some would call you vapid. I mean, this is what you're doing after your release? Don't you care about the people who just about ripped themselves apart for you?" I don't respond, he's got me wrong. Oh so wrong, "You're kidding yourself, you know," he chuckles without a trace of humor, "You might know how to play the part but in the end you'll be another annexed ring rat for when they come back to the city. You know that, you should, shouldn't you? All those men who breezed through you taught you that much, right?" whether it's a rhetorical question or not, I don't respond. I'll stone this out, "Nobody wifes a woman who hasn't a morsel of dignity, sweetheart."
All those philosophers, poets, writers, thinkers who came up with all those poignant quotes on the truth that people post on their MySpace, have got one thing going for them: it hurts and shit, it hurts beyond that of something physical.
Whatever intentions I have or had for tonight never included going home with anybody in particular. Given the opportunity though, I'd one or both of the two wrestlers. No shame in that, anybody would chop off their left hand just for a minute or two of their time – hell, women have literally thrown their panties and bras at countless celebs. Human nature.
Regardless, my instinctive pride-run defense mechanism won't let me bow down, "Fuck you and fuck your irrelevant opinion. Label me, fucking label the shit out of me," I spit venomously, "What if I fuck the whole lot? To each his own as long nothing comes of it. You're right on one thing, I'll be another on their proverbial post. Hey, I'm not sweating that 'cus so will they. My post is fairly extensive and could use A-listers. I'm twenty-two and know for damn sure what I'm getting myself into, thank you very much. You're not my brother, father, and you lost all type of control over my actions when you fucking left me!" and there you have it, I've said too much. This is a flaw of mine, holding grudges and not being able to filter my thoughts when I'm pissed off. This'll be my downfall.
His grip loosens up and face falls but I don't give it much thought because I flee only turning back to catch a glimpse of Punk running a hand through his gelled hair and stomping off in the direction of his table, presumably.
A/N- So the VIPs, nice? I know it seems far out for Punk to be there but keep going on!